


nothing kills a man faster than his own head

by orphan_account



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 20:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4405592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>everyone gather around for a show<br/>watch as this man disappears as we know<br/>do me a favor and try to ignore<br/>as you watch him fall through a bleeding trapdoor</i>"</p><p>there's a lot of things tyler doesn't like about living in an older house. he's kind of thankful for the thin walls, though, if it lead him to his unlikely friendship with one joshua dun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing kills a man faster than his own head

**Author's Note:**

> alright, this idea came up when i was skyping destery and watching the first season of american horror story. i enjoyed the idea of having tyler's dad as a psychiatrist, and josh being one of his patients, romance and all that jazz.
> 
> this is what unveiled!  
> as always, big thank-yous to my wonderful friend destery for being such a great person and my awesome beta reader. i'm very lucky to have him in my life, so make sure you check out his fics if you get the chance. <3

There were a lot of things that Tyler didn’t like about living in an old house.

For starters, the stairs creak too much when he’s trying to sneak food into his bedroom at night. The walls creak, too, as the frame of the house settles more and more into the ground with each passing second.

If he really thought about it, everything in the house creaked and the walls were too _thin_ ; you could hear everything, truly, from his parents arguing late at night when he was supposed to be asleep, to his sister gossiping over the phone with her friends, to strange moans heard at even stranger times on occurrences he’d rather never think too much about.

Having anxiety didn’t help, either. It had a way of magnifying his situations, making them seem worse than they really were – an overactive mind that transferred those noises and creaks into thoughts of intruders and ghosts and spirits lurking around corners in his own home.

Out of that long, spiraling list, one thing Tyler did like was his father’s job.

It used to be weird, when he was little, the idea of having a psychiatrist for a father. There were constantly strangers in and out of his house for meetings behind the locked doors of his father’s study, strangers who looked at him oddly when they passed by him in the house, those who smiled too big or too fake or didn’t even smile at all. Eventually, his father had just one rule put in place, for reasons unbeknownst to Tyler – don’t interact with his father’s patients.

He didn’t have to interact with them to figure things out. He had two eyes and two ears, after all.

As thin as the walls were, he knew much more than he should’ve. He developed a habit rather quickly of sitting close by to those closed study doors, ear pressed up against the wood, listening to his father listening and talking and figuring out disorders and conditions and illnesses.

That’s why he took to questioning himself. He was nine when words became familiar, after hearing multiple people being diagnosed with those same conditions – depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, and so on. There was a never ending list of things that could be off with the natural chemicals inside your brain, and he found himself sat in that own uncomfortable chaise behind locked study doors, fumbling with his fingers as he struggled to look his father in the eye to the best of his ability, answering as honestly as possible.

Depression, anxiety, and pills upon pills upon pills until they figured out the correct dosages to help him function, and he was thankful for his eavesdropping.

Maybe the walls creaked a little too much, and the noises sounded suspicious more often than not, but he did love his father’s job and all of the people who followed along with it.

He never did love his father’s habit of waking him up at nine o’clock every morning without fail, even on Saturdays. Sundays were even worse, when he was forced up an hour earlier to attend a church sermon he didn’t entirely understand, trying his hardest not to fall asleep in the church pew.

Tyler rubs at his eyes blearily, craning his neck back against the tall chair sat at the kitchen island, trying to force himself to be just a bit more awake.

“I have a meeting with a new patient in ten minutes,” his father announces as he bustles around the kitchen in way too chipper of a mood, picking up the coffee pot along with a mug set next to the sink.

Tyler perks up, shaking his head slightly to clear his vision as he pulls at a loose strand on his jeans. “What’s their name?” he asks, combating a yawn, ultimately failing.

“His name is Josh,” he hums, pouring coffee into the mug before stirring sugar into the cup.

“What’s he in therapy for?” Tyler asks immediately even if his mind nags him about it being futile, pulling his legs up into the chair, resting his knees against the counter island.

His father shoots him a look. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

Tyler smiles wistfully. “Yeah, I know.”

“What time do you think you’ll be doing your five hundred?”

Tyler rolls his shoulders, hugging his knees to his chest. “Dad, it’s only a little past nine. I’ve got plenty of time to play basketball.”

“They need to be done before dinner,” his father reminds, tapping his index on his coffee mug as if it isn’t hours away from it being six o’clock. “It’s important to your –“

His impending speech about the importance of basketball and Tyler’s mental health is cut short by the sound of the doorbell. His father huffs a sigh, drinking from his mug. “He’s early, but I guess it’s better than being late. Remember, before dinner.”

Tyler breathes a sigh of relief, his eyes trailing after his father as he leaves the kitchen, followed by the sound of the lock clicking and the main door opening. Technically, he isn’t supposed to interact with his father’s patients (as per his rules), but that doesn’t stop him from poking his head around the corner of the hallway, watching as his father greets Josh.

He isn’t different to any other patient Tyler has seen before. He’s of average height, maybe a bit shorter than himself, all sunny smiles and nervous hand gestures. His behavior is typical, really, the only thing that stands out about him is his hair, messy and curly at the top, shaved at the sides, and bright, bubblegum pink.

They all have a different way of expressing themselves, he figures. Josh’s seems to be the colorful hair and the stretched earlobes. Tyler knows he’d like to have something cool, too, but his parents aren’t all that lenient.

He scampers away when his father invites Josh into the house, down the hall to the study that doubles as an office, back into the safety of the kitchen where he can pretend like he’s not an eavesdropper. However, his father’s rules have never stopped him from following after when he hears the door to the study close, seating himself on the floor with his ear pressed to the door, listening as his father works.

Faintly, he can hear the shuffle of papers, the click of a pen, the clearing of someone’s throat, presumably his father’s.

“So, Josh,” his father begins. “It is Josh, isn’t it? Your mother mentioned Joshua, but you prefer being called Josh?”

“Yeah,” Josh says, voice plain, nearly monotonous.

“You’re sixteen,” he continues, sounding as if he’s reading off a piece of paper. “Same age as my son.”

“You have a son?” Josh asks, quietly, tone a little more inquisitive than before.

“I do. His name is Tyler. You must be a sophomore, then? How’s school going?”

Tyler shifts, pressing closer to the door, hands against the wooden frame.

There’s the sound of a body moving against those weird leather chaises that his father insisted on keeping in his study, claiming they were comfortable. Tyler thought otherwise, from his experience of sitting on one. “School’s fine,” Josh says, his voice dropping so it’s barely above a whisper, and Tyler has to strain to be able to hear him.

“How are your grades? Your mother says you’re very smart.”

“She has to say that, she’s my mother,” Josh laughs, but it falls flat, humorless. “A’s and B’s.”

The sound of a pen scribbling across a paper. Tyler would guess it was probably something about a low self esteem, seeing as Josh’s grades sounded impeccable. “Those are excellent grades, Josh,” his father praises. “How about friends? How many do you have?”

“Uh, a few.” Another squeak of leather.

“What are their names?”

“Brendon, and Dallon. Ryan, too. Spencer, I guess. He’s more of Brendon and Dallon’s friend, but he comes along whenever we hang out.”

“How often do you hang out?”

“Not often,” Josh admits, followed by a sigh. “They invite me out to eat too much –“

His voice halts, and cuts off completely, a telltale sign that he thinks he’s said too much. It’s followed once again by the sound of a pen against paper. “They invite you out to eat, and?” his father echoes, prying as subtly as possible.

“How do you feel when you eat in front of other people?” he tries, scribbling more onto his paper. Tyler wonders what there is to write on all those papers that are soon to be filed into confidential folders in confidential filing cabinets, tidbits about the inner workings of his patients’ minds to figure out how to help fix them.

The sound of a pen tapping against a clipboard. Eating is obviously a touchy subject, and Tyler mentally has a moment to congratulate himself for possibly figuring out what Josh is in therapy for.

A pause, before his father tries again, carefully changing the subject. “Do you have a girlfriend, Josh?”

Tyler wrinkles his nose at his father’s immediate assumption that Josh is straight right off the bat.

“No,” Josh says slowly, deliberately.

His father seems to have realized his mistake, albeit a little late. “How about a boyfriend?”

Tyler can almost feel Josh relaxing into the leather chaise from where he’s still stationary outside the door. Admittedly, his legs are growing sore, but he’s reluctant to leave. “No, but I did.”

“What was his name?”

“Chris.”

“Why did you two break up?”

“I was too fucked up for him,” Josh sighs. “He found out and he didn’t want a part of me.”

More of a pen scratching across paper, his father clearing his throat. “How did you handle that, Josh?”

Josh falls silent. Another touchy subject. No one ever said first meetings were _easy_ , but they usually went smoother.

“Do you self harm?” his father asks, and Tyler closes his eyes instinctively, holding his breath. “It’s okay, you can tell me anything. It all stays in this room. Your parents won’t know. I’m only trying to help.”

“That tape recorder says otherwise,” Josh grumbles, voice notably more on edge. Tyler exhales shakily.

“It’s just a safety precaution.”

“How long do sessions usually run?”

“An hour.”

“What time is it?”

A pause, and Tyler figures his father is looking at his watch. “9:43.”

“I need to use the bathroom.”

 _Fuck_.

Tyler scrambles to his feet, dashing off toward the kitchen, narrowly avoiding the sound of the study door opening and footsteps down the hall. He scrubs his face with his hands, running them through his hair.

“Have you been sitting there this whole time?”

His head snaps up, eyes landing on his father, standing in the doorway.

“What?” Tyler asks, coughing slightly.

“Have you been sitting there this whole time?” his father repeats.

“Uh, no?” he tries in return. “I ate food… and... stuff.”

“For forty minutes,” his father clarifies, crossing his arms.

“Yeah.”

Silence falls, and his father opens his mouth to say something, before closing it. Quietly, there’s the sound of the toilet flushing in the background, before Josh appears behind his father in the doorway. “Mr. Joseph?”

His father jumps slightly, and Tyler snickers, leaning back in his chair. “Uh, Mr. Joseph, I’m – I’ll be leaving now. Thanks –“ he starts, stopping short when he notices Tyler. “Oh, hi.”

Tyler’s eyes widen. He waves, slightly, ignoring his father boring holes into the side of his face, glaring daggers. “Hi.”

“Are you Tyler? Or do – do you have other kids, Mr. Joseph?” Josh turns his attention to his father, shifting his posture.

“Yes, I have other kids. Tyler is my oldest son.”

“I’m Tyler,” he interrupts, pointing at himself as Josh’s eyes flicker to him. “What’s your name?”

“Josh.”

“Yes, well, Josh should be going home now,” his father adds.

“Do you want some water, _Josh_?” Tyler smiles warmly, leaning forward and avoiding his father’s angered gaze by fixating on Josh’s face.

“Uh. Sure?”

Tyler springs up, collecting an empty glass from the side of the sink. He washes it out in the tap, asking over his shoulder as he does, “Do you want ice?”

“Please.”

He fills the glass halfway with ice, filling it with water before handing it to Josh, casually ignoring his father in favor of pointing at the island. “Do you want to talk for a minute?”

Josh gives him a wry smile. “Sure,” he mumbles, clutching the glass close to his chest, seating himself so close to Tyler that their knees brush any time he moves to the left or right even slightly. “Your dad mentioned you’re my age. What school do you go to?”

“I’m homeschooled.”

“Tyler, you should probably working on your five hundred now. Say goodbye to Josh,” his father gives him a pointed look, crossing his arms.

“Guess that’s my cue to leave,” Tyler groans, slapping his palms against the tabletop as he stands, pushing out his chair behind him with the backs of his knees. “ _Lovely_ to meet you, Josh.”

“You too,” Josh grins up at him, sipping innocently at his water as Tyler leaves, brushing past his father with a dry smile. He may or may not purposefully leave the door open as he makes his way to the carport, collecting his basketball from where it’s propped up behind the hoop.

He’s working on his fourth shot when the door closes and Josh plops himself down on the step, propping his chin up on the palm of his hand, watching.

“I like your hair,” Tyler says, grinning.

Josh snorts. “Thanks.”

He shoots another basket, and collects the ball.

“You know, when he said he had a son, I didn’t think he would be this cute.”

Tyler freezes from where he’s poised to shoot again. He’d be inclined to shake off the compliment, but his face is slowly heating up, cheeks turning red. “He told you about me?” he feigns innocence, trying to shake off the feeling squirming in his gut.

“Of course he did,” Josh hums, eyes following the ball as it flies up in an arc, bouncing off of the backboard and back into Tyler’s hands. “It’s his way of trying to get me to open up.”

Tyler rolls the ball in his hands, looking curiously at Josh over the top of it. His mouth moves, forming words before he can stop himself – “What do you need therapy for?”

Josh visibly winces, fingers tightening where they’re laced over his thighs. His lips open, close, open again, before pressing together tight in a thin line.

“I’m sorry,” Tyler mumbles, grabbing the ball closer to his chest, as if to protect himself. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair as he stands. “I should head home.”

Tyler nods minutely. “I’ll – uh, I’ll see you around. Nice to meet you.”

Josh shoves his hands in his pocket, dipping his head briefly before walking down the street, footsteps heavy against the pavement. He stares at the basketball, sighing softly, raising the ball up over his head and aiming, releasing.

He misses. He tries once more, and he misses again. “Nice one, Tyler,” he sighs, stooping to pick up the ball that’s rolled to his feet. “Why do you fuck everything up when you try to talk to cute boys?”

“You think he’s cute?”

Tyler drops the ball with an audible gasp, clutching at his heart dramatically. “When did you _get_ there?” he demands, eyes wide.

“A second ago,” his dad sighs, pointing in the direction where Josh left. “I’ve told you hundreds of times you’re not supposed to talk to my patients. You still talk to them.”

Tyler cracks his knuckles, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Tyler, if you were sorry, you wouldn’t continually do it.”

He has no response. He picks up the basketball at his feet.

“Finish up here. We’ll talk later.”

“Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> as always, hmu on social media!  
> @blurryfced on tumblr // @blurryfceds on twitter


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